Sleight of Hand

POETRY OF THE TIMES

Old as my grandmother,

she smiles up at me,

breath gentle and lulled,

her fears distracted

by my questions and patter.

I percuss her chest,

listen to her heart,

my style cool and entertaining

as any close-up magician

until I palpate her breast,

feel her flesh

like decayed leaves crushed

by time to a star of coal.

My fingertips define the borders,

sweat beads under my arms,

thoughts flash ahead

to the incision’s red arc,

the yellow bottles of poison.

Her laughter breaks my trance:

You should have seen them when
I was younger.

Oh for a stronger magic,

that I could wave my arms

and reach deep inside

my white coat pocket,

the mass vanished,

my hand a heaven of diamonds

over her generous breasts.

Dr Berlin has been writing a poem about his experience of being a doctor every month for the past 25 years in Psychiatric Times® in a column called “Poetry of the Times.” He is instructor in psychiatry, University of Massachusetts Medical School, Worcester, Massachusetts. His latest book is Freud on My Couch.